Just In Case
by lonewolf3676
Summary: Mary Margaret tries to help a resistant Emma deal with the pain of Graham's death. T for language. Chapter 4 is up - Emma and MM have an argument or two on movie night.
1. Mary Margaret

**Notes/Disclaimers: I own nothing, this was just something rattling around in my head. Might continue from Emma's POV if the mood strikes. Being slightly obsessive-compulsive, I decided I didn't like Emma's voice in my original post, so I altered it. **

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><p>As Mary Margaret traverses the boundary of warm sleep to fuzzy wakefulness, she becomes acutely aware of several things. First, and most painfully, her right arm is past the point of pins and needles, and well on its way to completely numb. Her attempt to move it is immediately stifled, as she comes to her second, albeit momentarily confusing, realization. Blinking away the haze of sleep, she peers down at the blond head nestled on her shoulder. Sure enough, her right arm is pinned under, and wrapped tightly around, her roommate, who is sound asleep next to her.<p>

Not used to waking with anyone, Mary just isn't sure how to proceed. Should she extract herself? Should she wait for Emma to wake? Mary doesn't have any sisters, and Emma is her first roommate, as far as she can remember, though she's pretty sure roommates don't usually sleep together. Something tickles the back of her mind at that. Shouldn't she _know_ whether or not she's had a roommate before? As quickly as it comes, the thought slips away, and Mary is again left wondering what to do, as she doesn't want Emma to feel uncomfortable.

It's not that she particularly minds her current position, it's the first time, in a long time, that she hasn't felt like something is missing from her life. Only, she's not entirely sure that she was even aware that something was out of place before Emma arrived. The woman's arrival, and to a greater extent her moving in and their subsequent interactions, seem to have coincided with Mary discovering some rather deep pain that didn't appear to be associated with anything at all. She finds this very disconcerting, but she isn't sure what it means. At the same time, there's that tickle at the back of her consciousness insisting that she _should_ know.

When Emma shifts slightly, burrowing deeper into her shoulder with a contented sigh, Mary is quite unprepared for the overwhelming upswell of love that courses through her being. She can't recall ever feeling an emotion this strong, and her conscious mind finds it completely inexplicable that she has almost been brought to tears by her love for someone she's known for such a brief time. When, last night, she had finally put her finger on the elusive adjective to describe her feelings, she found it altogether confusing. Given their proximity in age, she can't quite figure out _why_ her feelings are maternal. Yet there it is. Staring at her. Something. No, not just something… something important. There's that voice again. It's becoming more frequent, more demanding, yet frustratingly disappears, just as enlightenment threatens to spring out at her.

With a sigh, she absentmindedly strokes Emma's hair, hoping the blond will feel better when she wakes than when she went to bed. For all her exterior toughness, it isn't hard for Mary to see how fragile Emma's emotional world is. While the details haven't been particularly forthcoming, as Emma's not one to share much, her roommate isn't too hard to decipher. There is the obvious, lingering pain of parental abandonment, which Mary has a strange urge to patch up, as well as some other, as yet undetermined emotional traumas that manifest themselves in Emma's body language and defensive nature. The woman has a hell of a time making eye contact unless she is angry or defensive – and it isn't hard to get Emma on the defensive. The blond is clearly used to having her fires fought with fire, and Mary Margaret has taken it upon herself to fight Emma's fires with… well, even as her mind helpfully supplies the word 'water,' it isn't the image of fire hoses or a drenching summer rain that manifests in full color across her brain, but the gentle, falling flakes of winter, piling slowly, yet steadily, upon Emma's walls, until they merely collapse of their own weakness.

Graham's death, just a few days prior, had managed to build that wall higher and stronger than ever. Any small amount of trust that Mary Margaret had been given during Emma's first few weeks had been completely eradicated. Over the course of the twenty-four hours after the death, during which Emma had not returned to the apartment, Mary had prepared herself for just about every scenario for when her friend returned, even the one in which she didn't return. Yet, she'd come home, in her own time. Emma had put up a good front, Mary had to admit. It was only the dark circles under her eyes that betrayed her devastation.

With nothing more than a couple of emotionless statements of fact regarding the Sheriff's death, Emma beat a hasty retreat to her room. Mary Margaret had let her go, for the moment, fully aware of Emma's fear of being vulnerable. Still, Mary stayed up well into the early morning hours, listening for signs of distress - or packing - driven by forces, emotions, she didn't fully understand.

There was nothing but silence for hours, until just after two in the morning, when Mary finally heard the tiny whimpers. With a deep breath, she hesitantly ascended the stairs and knocked softly, even as she cracked the door open.

"Emma?" she questioned gently.

There was no response, and Mary wasn't entirely sure if Emma was awake. She crossed the room, almost silently, her heart aching more at each cry. There was just enough room on the edge of the bed for Mary Margaret to sit, so she did. She gently reached out to stroke Emma's head, which was the only part of her body not buried under blankets, and felt the slightly younger woman tense.

"Emma," she called, her voice low and soothing. Drawn out, it was no longer a question, and the word flowed from her mouth as if she herself had pulled the name from the ethereal heavens and bestowed it upon a golden haired infant.

Emma stilled, but made no move to turn towards her friend.

"It'll get easier, sweetie." The endearment rolled off her tongue of its own will, and she worried that she'd pushed too hard when Emma curled in on herself even further.

With a sigh, Mary knew better than to force anything. She wasn't sure how she knew, but she followed her instincts. She patted a slender shoulder through the blankets, and pulled away. Quietly, she left the room, leaving the door open, just in case Emma needed her.

There were no more sounds that night, and Emma was up and gone in the time it took Mary to shower the next morning. Disappointed that she'd missed her friend, but relieved to see her belongings still in the apartment, Mary Margaret left for school.

After three days of the same routine, only laying eyes on her friend when she checked on her each night through the darkness of the Emma's bedroom, Mary Margaret decided it was time to seek out her roommate. She was, then, completely unprepared to literally bump into the other woman when she opened the apartment door.

"Oh, Emma! I'm so-"

"It's fine," came the brusque response.

Mary Margaret tilted her head, trying to catch Emma's eyes, to no avail. "I was just about to go looking for you," Mary stated, her tone as soft as she could make it.

Emma's eyes flashed in defiance, as she briefly made eye contact. "I don't need you to look for me. I'm just fine on my own."

Mary Margaret knew Emma would try to shut herself off from the world, but she was still taken aback by the level of defensiveness in her friend's tone. A careful nod, as the brunette knew she would have to tread carefully. The voice nudging at her consciousness told her this was a vital interaction, one she couldn't afford to lose. "Well, yes, but I was worr—"

"Don't," the blonde retorted, brushing past Mary, into the apartment as irritation creeped into her voice. "I'm fine. Just stop."

Conflict was not Mary's forte. Emma, however, clearly thrived on it, whether out of desperation, or necessity, or because she didn't know anything else, Mary wasn't sure. So, the possibility of beginning an argument with the blond was an intimidating thought. Perhaps it was Emma's weakening effect on the curse, or perhaps it was that ever growing voice reminding Mary Margaret that she hadn't always been so timid, but Mary found herself summoning a strength she didn't know she had. She firmly met Emma's gaze with a defiance and determination that belied her gentle response. "No."

Clearly confused by the contrast between Mary's voice and her facial expression, Emma was thrown off long enough for the other woman to continue without interruption.

"I can't do that, Emma."

"Can't or won't? What gives you the right to...to.. this," she finished, waving her hand vaguely between them, unable to find the word to describe exactly what it was that Mary was doing.

"That's where everyone in your life has screwed it up, Emma. Those walls of yours are up _precisely _because someone in your past thought that caring about you, or pretending to, or having any kind of relationship with you, is their right. It's no one's _right_. It's their privilege when you decide you want it."

Mary watched Emma's eyes soften thoughtfully for an instant, before the wall went up again. She continued, still trying to catch Emma's eyes. "So, to answer the other question, both. Can't and won't. It's the only way I know to ask for your trust, Emma, without taking it from you." Mary responds, her voice still quiet, her posture relaxed. With Emma's guard still up, she moved to sit on the couch, to make herself less threatening.

Emma turned to watch her, shifting almost nervously, seemingly unsure of how to continue. "What are you doing?" she asked, her voice still defensive.

The brunette head tilted ever so slightly, and Mary considered her response. "Waiting," she responded honestly.

"What the hell does that mean?" Emma crossed her arms over her chest.

"It means that I'm not going anywhere."

Mary stated this in such a quiet, matter of fact tone that Emma wavered, her mood giving way to uncertainty.

The internal conflict in the younger woman astounded Mary. It was blatantly obvious to her that somewhere along the line, or everywhere along it, someone that Emma trusted must have caused her profound pain to leave her so afraid of being vulnerable, so reluctant to trust. She was startled by the intensity of her rage at those who would hurt her friend, unaware that she was capable of the depth of anger that coursed through her body. She struggled to maintain her calm demeanor, lest she frighten Emma away.

Uncomfortable with the entire direction of the disagreement, and the genuine concern directed towards her, the blond was left with only one option. Mary wouldn't fight, so Emma fled, closing her bedroom door loudly behind her.

With a sigh of frustration, Mary watched her go. Since she didn't hear signs of packing, she waited patiently. After all, the blond would have to come out of her room at some point. She was fairly certain Emma wanted to trust her, as she probably would have already left otherwise.

A few moments later, Mary watched Emma storm out of her room, and out of the apartment without a word. Still, no suitcase in hand, so Mary let her go.

When Emma left that evening, Mary made some hot chocolate, with cinnamon, and sat down to really think. She couldn't put her finger on why she was so compelled to help Emma. She'd helped others in the past, but none seemed so… well, personal. And _that_ was the point of confusion. Her subconscious tickle became more noticeable at that moment, more persistent. She was missing something. She was worried about Emma, but her worry surpassed that of a friend. No, she corrected. Friend wasn't right either. Sister was closer, but still not right. She struggled to name it, knew it was almost within her grasp, but it still eluded her.

She thought about Graham, and it occurred to her that his death was odd. She couldn't remember a single death in town, other than his. She frowned at this, and was sure that someone should have died, but in all her years volunteering at the hospital, she couldn't recall a single death. This was baffling.

As the clock on her microwave turned to midnight, she was startled from her thoughts by a knock at the door. Thinking that Emma forgot her key, she crossed the apartment and opened the door.

She covered her mouth in surprise to see David carrying an unconscious Emma. "What happened?" she asked, swinging the door wide so he could come in.

"Excessive consumption of alcohol would be my guess," David offered. "She was at the bar for hours, then just passed out. I thought I should help."

Mary met his eyes gratefully. "Thanks, she's having a rough time right now."

David nodded kindly. "Where should we put her?"

"I don't think we can get her up the stairs," Mary responded, looking at the steep narrow stairs leading to the loft. "She can have my bed." As she wrapped an arm around Emma, to help David, her hand brushed his arm. She was jolted by an onslaught of jumbled emotions and images and words that were indecipherable. She gasped, one word finally striking her. _Mother._ Unfortunately, she was in no position to analyze the thought or its associated emotions, so she shoved it aside for the moment. They carefully placed her on the bed, and Mary Margaret pulled the blankets up over her friend.

Worried about Emma, and still hurt by her last encounter with David, she'd ushered him to the door quickly. She ignored the voice that insisted he could help Emma, too. "So, thanks for bringing her home…"

David looked at her intently, as if he was trying desperately to remember something that was just out of reach. "Uh... yeah, sure. No problem. It was the right thing to do." He shook his head as it slipped away, and turned to walk leave.

When the door was locked, Mary leaned against it briefly, squeezed her eyes shut, and pushed away the strange ache rising in her chest. Steadying herself, she walked back to the bedroom to check on Emma.

She stood next to the bed, watching Emma sleep. The younger woman had dark rings under her eyes, and Mary decided that Emma probably hadn't slept in days. Curiously, she bent down to sniff Emma's breath. Emma didn't particularly smell of alcohol, and Mary thought she smelled cinnamon. With an amused smile, she realized Emma had simply fallen asleep at the bar.

She grabbed a blanket, and was reaching for her pillow before heading to the couch, but froze when Emma cried out in her sleep. Waffling briefly as to what to do, but unable to ignore the fact that Emma's cries caused her an almost physical pain, she finally decided forego the couch.

Turning out the light, she climbed into bed and reached out tentatively. She rested her hand on Emma's pillow, while gently stroking her forehead with the side of her thumb. "Shhh…" she murmured.

The cries diminished slightly, and Emma turned towards the voice.

Mary thought she saw Emma's eyes flutter open, but she couldn't be certain in the dark. As Mary continued her soothing whispers, the body next to her moved closer and closer, until a blond head rested on her shoulder, and a hand gripped tightly at her night shirt. With a shuddering sigh, Emma was suddenly quiet, and very much asleep.

At this, Mary found herself awash in emotions almost too varied to categorize. A deep, aching pain of loss bubbled up into her chest_. _She'd forgotten that pain, but she couldn't remember from where it originated. How could she forget _that _pain? She was supposed to have remembered it forever. She remembered making that vow to herself. She knew this pain as well she knew her own name, though that, too, seemed suddenly wrong. Silent tears streamed down her cheeks, for… what? Or who? Guilt filtered out of her subconscious for letting this slip her mind. Why did it feel as if her heart had been ripped out and trampled? Yet another strange thought tickled her mind. _She's safe now. _She didn't know where the thought came from or what it meant, only that it was important, and that she _should _know.

Emma shifted silently, and the movement drew Mary out of her thoughts. She held Emma a little tighter, and the pain dissipated, retreating a little less deep into her subconscious than it had been before… which is how Mary Margaret came to find herself in this morning's predicament.

Her arm is still tingling after her mental wanderings, and she decides she's going to have to move. Ever so carefully, she slides her arm out from under Emma. Her roommate is still breathing softly, and she'll probably sleep most of the day. It's Saturday, and Mary Margaret has nowhere to be. She'll make breakfast and read… and leave the door cracked. Just in case.


	2. Emma

AN: So, I have to say that I was a bit surprised by episodes 1x08 and 1x09. I don't quite understand why Emma would open up so much to Mary Margaret right after Graham died. I rather expected her to shut down for a while. I'm sure it will all make sense in time, but, meanwhile, my shock that she told MM Henry's theory on her parentage shall continue in force.

As always, I own nothing. I gain nothing from the following passages other than getting them out of my head such that they will no longer harass me. I don't usually write much dialogue, and am much more comfortable with inner musings. However, dialogue just seemed to keep finding its way onto the page, like an impossible, insistent child. I could only ignore its tiny tantrums for so long…..

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><p>She's had the dream at least a dozen times in the past week, and even though she knows exactly what will happen, she's as completely powerless to stop it in her dreamscape as she was in real life. He's falling, and she's screaming again. He gasps for breath, and her tears splash on his shirt as she tries to help. She's pounding on his chest, but it's too late. It's always too late. She promises herself she'll never do this again, and she's backing away now. She knows she's going to back into the wall, but the wall is soft this time, and that's not the way the dream goes. She's supposed to be cold, but there's a sudden warmth, and she realizes that someone is holding her. She thinks she knows who it is, the scent is comforting and familiar, but she can't remember a name. She's screaming at her dream-self to push away, but she's tired of hurting, and it's only a dream, so she turns and grabs on tight. As arms tighten around her, the pain lessens, the dreamscape fades, and all she knows is that she feels safe.<p>

When she wakes, Emma experiences about five seconds of panic when she doesn't recognize her surroundings. She's in the process of pushing up and getting the hell out, when she suddenly realizes she doesn't have a hangover, she's still dressed, and she's in Mary Margaret's room. No one night stand here. With an exhale of relief, she flops back down on the bed, and pulls a pillow over her head to block out the light.

The pillow smells like Mary Margaret, and Emma hates that her mind is starting to associate the scent with all things warm and fuzzy. It's comforting and she doesn't know why. It's extremely disquieting. She doesn't know how it happened, how she _let_ it happen, and it makes her mad. She tosses the pillow to the other side of the bed. Only, it doesn't really help because everything smells like her. Dammit.

She isn't sure if she slept alone, and it unnerves her. She isn't a hugger, but knows that Mary Margaret has those tendencies. She is, after all, a teacher of small children, and Emma's pretty sure that comes with the territory. In fact, her roommate has already tried on at least one occasion to intrude into her personal space. She wonders about this. She remembers the nightmare from last night, and… well, maybe she just doesn't want to know.

She angrily wipes away a single tear and takes a deep breath. She's promised herself she's not going to cry anymore. Besides, she should be used to this by now. Everyone always leaves her, one way or another. No one can be trusted, and she's tired of crying about it.

With a sigh, she stares at the window. The muted tones of the afternoon sun stream through the clouds, and she realizes that she slept - really slept - and slept well. Considering that, she actually can't recall sleeping so well since… well, ever. Dammit, again. She tells herself it's not because of Mary Margaret, and forces herself to get up, even though she kind of wants to stay.

She wanders out of the bedroom, and wonders if Mary Margaret is pissed about her attitude yesterday. The brunette's on the couch, and offers her one of those smiles that makes Emma feel like she's wanted. She hates that. Or wants to hate it. Is there a difference? Experience has taught Emma that people only want her until something better comes along. On the plus side, yesterday has apparently been forgotten. Or forgiven, or whatever it is friends do. Emma's not used to that and this, too, makes her uncomfortable.

"Hey," she offers the brunette, but it feels stiff and awkward because their last conversation wasn't actually a conversation at all. Well, at least not the last one that she can remember.

"Hi, sleep well?" Mary responds cheerfully, as she gets up and heads to the kitchen.

Emma wonders how to respond to this, as she opens the fridge to grab some cold pizza. She doesn't really want to share. She decides deflection is her best course of action. "I don't really remember what happened last night?" She peers at the pizza, and takes a bite.

Mary Margaret makes a face. "That pizza has to be from before last week. Do you really think you should be eating that?" She's mortified, and pulls the box from the fridge to throw it out, taking the piece Emma is eating, as well. "I'll make you something," she states definitively.

It's Emma's turn to be horrified, and some quick maneuvering manages to salvage the one slice from Mary's sudden, and highly unwelcome, role as apartment health inspector. She warily moves to the other side of the room to enjoy it. "Pizza lasts forever." She's sure whatever Mary Margaret was planning to make would be better, but it's the principle of the thing.

"Emma, that cannot be good for you," she adds, then lets it go.

Emma watches as Mary closes her eyes and tilts her head slightly to refocus on the previous discussion. She doubts that the brunette knows that she sometimes treats Emma like one of her fourth graders, trying to make things better, and asking her questions that make Emma think that Mary Margaret already knows the answer, but wants to see if Emma knows it, too. She wonders how it is that there's only a few years separating them, yet Mary Margaret seems so much older, more mature than Emma herself. Sometimes she _feels_ like a fourth grader around the other woman. It's weird, and she's not sure what to make of it.

The brunette hands her a cup of hot chocolate, with cinnamon, of course, that she was making prior to the hijacking of Emma's pizza, and nods. "Apparently, you passed out at the bar, and were carried home. We couldn't get you up the stairs, so we just put you in my bed."

Emma frowns. "I didn't drink anything…. Wait. We? Someone carried me home? Who, exactly, was this knight in shining armor?" She's thinking about all the possibilities, and really hopes it wasn't Leroy because she doesn't want to owe him a favor. The last thing she needs is for him to try weasel out of a night in jail, courtesy of helping out the acting Sheriff.

Mary Margaret blinks, and her eyes glaze over for a moment, as if she is remembering something. "Sorry.. it was J- David." The brunette stumbles over the name, and frowns slightly at this.

Emma misses all but the end of his name because she wasn't paying attention, and squeezes her eyes shut. "Sorry," she answers, staring into her mug. Really sorry. Dammit. She took her roommate's bed, and forced her into a likely unwelcome interaction with the man that just broke her heart.

"It's okay. I'm just glad you got home. As for the passing out, Emma, I think you probably fell asleep."

Mary Margaret's voice is gentle, and the way she says Emma's name washes over her warmly. She tells herself it's just the hot chocolate, and sets the mug on the counter. "Ok, so, I'm just going to go shower," Emma states without making eye contact. Sometimes she feels like her roommate can see into her soul. The scrutiny makes her uncomfortable, and she doesn't want anyone to see her so closely. So, she looks away. Just in case.

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><p>She takes her time to shower and change, needing the space to settle herself, and refortify her walls. When she re-emerges into the apartment, Mary Margaret is cooking. A lot.<p>

"Are we having visitors?" Emma queries with a frown.

Mary Margaret shakes her head. "No. Graham's funeral is tomorrow, and Granny is having a get together afterwards. I offered to make a casserole and a cake."

"A cake? Seriously? Cakes are for weddings. Not funerals," Emma retorts. Besides, who the hell wants to hang out after a funeral? It's just wrong. The idea of all those people around her when she's upset makes her cringe.

Mary Margaret turns to her, thoughtfully. "Maybe cookies, then. I've never done this before… Are you planning to go to the funeral alone? Or are you coming with me?"

The question is soft, and hesitant, as if the brunette doesn't want to assume anything, but Emma is caught off guard and feels her heart start pounding. She hadn't thought of this. "What? I mean… I don't know." She doesn't want to share her pain with anyone. She doesn't want anyone's sympathy. Her misery definitely does not love company. "I guess I just assumed I'd go alone," she finishes, lamely, looking anywhere but at her roommate.

"Emma…" Mary Margaret draws out her name softly, and Emma wants to run. The concern in her roommate's voice almost overwhelms her. She's not used to it, and doesn't know how to handle to her resulting emotions.

"…You don't have to go alone. That is, you can if you want, but we're both going anyway."

Emma briefly meets Mary's gaze. "I'm not going to the thing at Granny's, so maybe we should go separately." She sees the internal debate within her roommate before the dark head nods.

"Ok."

Emma's surprised, but relieved, that Mary Margaret lets it go so easily. It's not that she doesn't like the brunette, because she most definitely does. In fact, that's the problem. She likes Mary Margaret more than anyone she's ever met. The woman has an uncanny ability to get Emma to share things she doesn't really mean to share, things she wouldn't usually tell anyone. She can't figure out why she keeps talking to Mary Margaret, but she knows it has to stop. It's too dangerous. Hell, sometimes the woman just has to sit there and look at Emma to get her to talk. She's already lost Graham, and it was a wake-up call, reminding her that no one in her life is ever a permanent fixture.

With a sigh, Emma falls on the couch. If Emma's superpower is lie detection, Mary Margaret's is confession. Lying back on the couch, she tries to hide under a pillow again… and it smells like her roommate. Dammit.

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><p>She hates funerals, though really, everyone does. She's sitting alone at the very back of the rows of chairs, and can see Henry's small form shivering in the cold at the front. She can't figure out why Regina would coordinate an outdoor funeral in the middle of a Maine winter. She sighs softly. Henry hasn't even looked around for her. Henry always looks for her. She wonders if she's somehow lost him, too, or if Regina has simply tightened his leash.<p>

She wonders why she's even come. She doesn't want to be here. Maybe she should leave. It's a sea of black, and it's suffocating. She stares blankly at the coffin. When will she ever learn to stop opening up to people? The pain of loss is a familiar companion, however unwanted. Every fucking time. She's so damn tired of this. It's like she has a giant cosmic bulls-eye right on her chest, and every time she lowers her guard, she gets nailed. Does the pain ever stop? Hell, maybe the problem, in the end, isn't with everyone else. Maybe it's just her.

She sniffles slightly. It's cold, after all. Her eyes are burning, from the icy wind. She closes them tightly for a moment, and hears the rustle of movement next to her. She already knows who it is, for the wind carried the scent to her. She doesn't smell like perfume in any way. It's fresh, and warm, with a hint of snow covered evergreens, and cinnamon. Emma clenches her jaw. She doesn't want this. Not now. Not really ever. Opening her eyes, she casts a sideways glance at the brunette next to her.

Mary Margaret, thankfully, isn't looking at her. She's looking at Regina, who is rambling on about Graham. It's a jumble of words that make no sense, and Emma suddenly can't focus. She's starting to sweat, despite the bitter cold. It's becoming hard to breathe, and the gulps of freezing air are burning her lungs. She closes her eyes to orient herself, but it's dizzying. She needs to go. She tries to stand, but a startlingly strong hand on her shoulder keeps her in her seat. She tries to push it away - she really has to leave - but Mary Margaret is apparently stronger than she looks, and fighting only makes Emma feel worse. She looks at Mary again, pleading with her eyes for the woman to let go. Her friend is trying to tell her something, but she can't hear it because the wind is roaring in her ears. She realizes she feels sick, and squeezes her eyes closed once more. There's something soft on her cheeks, and she swats at it uselessly. Fighting off the wave of nausea, she struggles to open her eyes. Mary's still talking to her, gently holding her face within her gloved hands. Why the hell is the woman mumbling?

"Need to go…" Emma manages to whisper. Why is it so hard to talk? She's dizzy again, and is immensely grateful that Mary is holding on to her because she's certain she'd fall over, otherwise.

"Breathe, Emma," she finally hears, and it's not a request. When did the brunette get so fucking bossy?

She shakes her head.

"Yes… You have to breathe…"

She is breathing, isn't she? In and out, in and out.

"Slower, sweetie," the gentle voice insists. Well, fuck. Mary's not only going to tell her what to do, but how to do it. Seriously bossy. She is _not_ one of Mary's fourth graders. Yet Emma finds herself trying to comply anyway, much to her annoyance.

She doesn't want to open her eyes again, she knows everyone is still moving. Can't people sit still at a funeral, for fuck's sake? She's still breathing, and the hands cupping her face are brushing their thumbs gently across her cheek. Is she crying again? She wasn't going to do that anymore. Dammit.

Mary's still murmuring what sounds like nonsense to her, but the words are becoming clearer, and she cracks her eyes open. People are finally sitting still, and Regina is still running her mouth. Dressed all in black, Emma thinks she does kind of look like an evil queen.

"Emma… Look at me…"

Her head moves slowly, against her will, and she vaguely remembers that Mary Margaret is still holding it. She blinks slowly, and meets sympathetic green eyes.

"Are you all right?" Mary Margaret asks, concern lacing her voice.

Emma nods, and takes a deep, measured breath.

Carefully, the brunette releases her hold, but continues her scrutiny of Emma's features. "Good. I thought you were going to pass out."

She still feels nauseous, so she simply shakes her head. She looks back up at Regina, who, blessedly, has stopped talking, and is finally leaving the podium. She frowns. Is the funeral over? She's pretty sure she just got here. Just as she's starting to get a grip on herself, there's a hand on her arm, and Mary is talking to her again.

"Come on. I'm taking you home."

Emma pulls her arm away, and fights past her lightheadedness. "I'm fine," she states, pushing to her feet. Only she isn't really fine, and Mary catches her as she starts to tumble backwards. "Godammit! What. The. Fuck," she curses.

"Oh yeah. I can see how perfectly fine you are," her friend responds sarcastically.

She hears the brunette sigh, then she's talking again. Does she always talk so much? Why has Emma never noticed this before? Words are jumbled again, and she finds herself being pulled to her car, and pushed in the passenger side. She closes her eyes, taps her head repeatedly against the cold glass of the window in frustration, and gives up the exhausting fight against Mary Margaret's mothering.

"I told you not to eat that pizza," is the last thing she hears before drifting off.

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><p>This time, she wakes to the sound of chopping. She's on the couch, though she only vaguely remembers stumbling across the apartment, before falling upon it. She pulls the blanket up a little more, and refuses to open her eyes.<p>

"What are you killing over there?" she asks over the pounding of the knife.

"Vegetables… I'm making soup."

There are footsteps closing in on her, and she chances a look. Mary Margaret is hovering again. Seriously, maybe she should get the woman a dog or something.

"How are you feeling?" the brunette queries, clearly struggling with herself not to reach out and feel Emma's forehead.

"I'm fine. I'm not sick," she insists, watching her roommate quirk an eyebrow at this. She pushes up to a sitting position.

"You're not sick," Mary repeats, sitting down on the recently vacated half of the couch. "So, what happened, then?"

Emma 's fighting herself again. She can't understand her need to pour out her heart to this woman. She knows she's just going to get hurt again, yet can't seem to stop herself, even though she tries. "I guess funerals and I just don't get along very well."

She fiddles with the edge of the blanket, needing to look anywhere but at Mary Margaret. She doesn't expect the gentle hand on her chin, guiding it around to meet those kind green eyes and soft smile. Well, fuck. If the woman was a little older, Emma might just believe Henry's theory. She slams her eyes shut. Maybe if she doesn't look…

"Emma, I think it's more than that, and I'm trying not to intrude, or push, but you aren't sleeping, you're barely eating, and you're clearly hurting. I want to help, but you aren't letting me in." The voice is quiet and coaxing, and if she isn't careful, Emma's going to end up a sobbing heap in the woman's arms, and she really doesn't want that.

With a deep breath, Emma pushes off the couch, and wanders to the kitchen. "Is there something wrong with me?" The question is little more than a whisper because she's afraid to ask, and terrified of the answer.

The brunette head cants to the side, and Mary frowns. "I'm not sure I understand? Do you mean today? Or in general?"

Emma wraps her arms around herself, and turns towards her roommate. "In general." Her friend still looks confused, so she elaborates. "It's just that… I mean, maybe the problem isn't everyone else. Maybe it's me. Maybe there's something wrong with me that makes everyone leave."

Enlightenment graces Mary Margaret's face, and Emma has to turn away from her because she doesn't understand the pain etched across the other woman's features. She's scraping at the counter with her fingernail, when she hears footsteps behind her. Then, Mary's turning her around by the shoulders. She shuts her eyes again because, really, she didn't mean to ask the question, and now she has, and she knows she's just going to hurt more if she looks at the brunette.

There are hands on her face again. She idly wonders if all teachers are so fucking touchy-feely. Can't the woman just answer without touching her? Yet, she can't pull away, and wonders what invisible force keeps her still.

"Emma, please open your eyes and look at me," the voice is pleading, but Emma hears the insistence.

With an exhale, she grudgingly complies. She blinks rapidly and doesn't understand why there are tears in Mary's eyes.

"Your poor choice in leftovers aside, there is nothing wrong with you. You've told me that the foster system is flawed. You were a meal ticket, and I know that hurts. That's a problem with the system, not you. I'm sorry that you never had anyone to love you as you should have been, but you cannot blame yourself. As for your relationships, we both know that men can be… well, less than charming."

The brunette's voice is kind, and Emma can't stand it. She thinks she doesn't deserve whatever it is that Mary Margaret is offering because no one's ever offered it to her before. She's not entirely sure she even has a name for it, but knows it frightens her. It would mean lowering those walls for good, and she's not ready. She turns away, unable to meet the green eyes searching for her own.

"I'm not finished, yet," she hears, and finds that her friend is once again trying to force eye contact, with a small lean and a tilt of her head. "I know you're afraid to let people behind those walls, and I know you've had more than your fair share of unfortunate luck in doing so, but you can't let Graham's death cut you off from the world. We all die, Emma, and that's not your fault either."

Emma bites her lip, and nods. She's not going to cry. She swipes at her eyes, and turns, walking towards the pot of soup. "Smells good… chicken?"

"Yes, I figured something healthy would be in order after your rather unfortunate run in with two week old pizza," Mary responds, picking up the knife to continue her chopping, and letting Emma off the emotional hook for the moment.

"You know, that's not funny," Emma retorts, crossing her arms over her chest.

Mary quirks a smile. "It's a little funny."

"It's actually not. And I already told you I'm not sick. You can't get food poisoning from leftover pizza."

"No, just apples, I suppose," Mary answers thoughtfully, before continuing, "at least according to Henry."

Emma blinks rapidly and she wonders what else Henry has said to her friend. She watches Mary Margaret making the soup and wants to tell her that she's not her mom, and she doesn't want soup because, again, she's not sick - but it smells good, and the slightly older woman sure has been acting like her mom. So she stays quiet. Just in case.


	3. Mary Margaret & Emma

**AN: This picks up slightly before where the last chapter left off. It continues into the scene where Emma confesses to MM that Henry believes MM is her mother. I found that I had just too many questions as to how Emma got from completely untrusting to the polar opposite. There was no explanation, and no pivotal scene or storyline as to why, all of a sudden, Emma's going to trust MM at that level. It just seems like it should have been a slower process, especially with Graham's death thrown in the mix. At any rate, my original intention wasn't to explain that, but sometimes stories have a mind of their own, and that's where I ended up. No infringement intended, nor do I gain anything. I own nothing. Alas.**

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><p><strong>Mary Margaret<strong>

Mary Margaret loves to cook. It's only been since her roommate moved in that she's discovered – or rediscovered – this particular love. She can't recall how she knows, or where she learned, only that it feels right. She wonders if perhaps it's simply that she now has someone to cook _for_. There's not too much cooking she can do for herself, without having leftovers that will never get eaten. And, she considers, if there's one thing Emma will eat, it's leftovers.

She glances over at her roommate, curled up and sleeping on the couch, and shakes her head. She desperately wants to help, but Emma is incredibly resistant to accepting any kind of comfort or meting out any level of trust. She finds this extraordinarily painful, though she thinks she really has no reason to. After all, she barely knows her roommate. Yet, there's that voice again, screaming that she does know Emma. After all, they've met before… somewhere. She's sure of this. But where?

She knows she sometimes treats the woman, only a few years her junior, like a child. She knows this is completely absurd, as Emma is most definitely not a child. Yet, Mary finds herself completely incapable of ignoring her overwhelming desire to do things like make Emma's hot chocolate with warm milk, when she has been making her own with water for years. She isn't even sure why she feels an all consuming need to soothe Emma's pain, though there's a deep rooted feeling that she should know very well why that is.

Emma 's ability to go from angry, defensive adult, to frightened, hurting child over the course of one sentence, frequently leaves Mary Margaret with mental whiplash. She thinks she's starting to get a handle on dealing with the angry, defensive adult, but the child is the challenge. She wants nothing more than to hold the child in her lap, rock her gently, and kiss the top of her head, assuring her that everything is going to be okay – which, again, seems completely ludicrous to her conscious mind. Yet, there it is, even if she has absolutely no handle on what _it_ is.

Unfortunately, the child is secure behind the wall of the angry, defensive adult, and often does no more than peer over the top for a few brief seconds. The child is afraid. Afraid of being hurt, afraid of being loved, and, simultaneously, of not being loved.

She never knows whether the frightened hurting child or angry defensive adult will show up, and she's completely at a loss on the rare occasion she has to deal with both at the same time. Graham's funeral was a prime example. A complicated mix of the adult and the child. The adult insisted she was going alone, the child was distressed, the adult tried to push away and leave, even as the child allowed Mary Margaret to comfort and brush away the tears. Dealing with Emma, she realizes, is a complicated dance that has her moving forward and backward at the same time. She can neither push too much, nor too little, and it's a delicate balance that she intends to maintain. If the adult will trust her, she knows she can soothe the child, and, if she can do that, then, perhaps, Emma can be whole, rather than a broken mess of pieces scattered by a raging wind.

Perhaps, the brunette thinks, her biological clock is ticking, and with no one else around, Emma is simply the unavoidable target of her mothering. Then again, she has a classroom full of actual children she mothers on a daily basis. Of course, those children have mothers and Emma doesn't. It's altogether perplexing. With a frustrated exhalation, she finishes slicing the tomatoes for her chicken soup. It's a cold day, Emma's either sick or grieving - or both – and Mary Margaret intends to see to it that the blond eats tonight.

As she starts chopping carrots, she hears Emma's voice, still hoarse from sleep.

"What are you killing over there?" she asks over the pounding of the knife.

"Vegetables… I'm making soup," she responds, before setting down her knife and walking towards her roommate.

She stops short, and dries her hands on the dishtowel, forcing herself not to brush her hand along Emma's forehead to check for any fever. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine. I'm not sick," is the insistent reply, as Emma watches her warily before sitting up at one end of the couch.

"You're not sick," Mary repeats, in a tone that makes it clear that she doesn't necessarily agree with this assessment. She sits down on the recently vacated half of the couch before continuing. "So, what happened, then?" She's genuinely curious as to Emma's response.

She sees an internal battle rage, and the defensive adult emerges. "I guess funerals and I just don't get along very well."

Almost as suddenly, the adult is gone, replaced by the child, who plays with the edge of the blanket. Now, and only now, she reaches out to gently take Emma's chin in thumb and forefinger, before slowly drawing the blond head around to face her. Mary shakes her head as the hazel eyes close.

"Emma, I think it's more than that, and I'm trying not to intrude, or push, but you aren't sleeping, you're barely eating, and you're clearly hurting. I want to help, but you aren't letting me in." Her voice is kind, and encouraging, as it always is when she talks to the child.

Emma pulls away and pushes off the coach, and Mary thinks she's done the wrong thing. She expects the adult, and is thusly surprised when it's still the child that addresses her.

"Is there something wrong with me?"

She barely hears the quiet question, and isn't sure she knows exactly what Emma is asking. She tilts her head thoughtfully and frowns, needing clarification. "I'm not sure I understand? Do you mean today? Or in general?"

She watches as Emma wraps her arms around herself protectively, and understands, before Emma responds, that whatever is going on is a bigger issue than just today.

"In general… It's just that… I mean, maybe the problem isn't everyone else. Maybe it's me. Maybe there's something wrong with me that makes everyone leave."

In addition to feeling privileged that Emma has trusted her enough to even ask this question, Mary Margaret can't help the feeling of guilt that burns into her stomach, nor the wrenching sorrow that constricts her heart, both of which make her eyes water. Her subconscious voice insists that she had no choice, it was the only way to keep her safe. It makes no sense, and she dismisses it in the face of her immediate need to reassure her friend, who's now turned away from her.

Mary is up and slowly spinning Emma around, almost before she realizes she's doing it. She wishes her friend would stop closing her eyes, but understands the discomfort with sharing and affection.

Ever so carefully, as if she's tending an injured, frightened bird, she places her hands on Emma's face. "Emma, please open your eyes and look at me," she pleads, knowing there's an undercurrent of a command.

When the blond complies, she continues. "Your poor choice in leftovers aside, there is nothing wrong with you. You've told me that the foster system is flawed. You were a meal ticket, and I know that hurts. That's a problem with the system, not you. I'm sorry that you never had anyone to love you as you should have been, but you cannot blame yourself. As for your relationships, we both know that men can be… well, less than charming." Her voice is soothing, melodic, for she's been trusted with, and by, the child, and she intends to repay that trust as best she can.

Yet, the child is still hurting, still afraid, and turns away.

"I'm not finished, yet," she continues, though there's no reprimand in her tone, just an assurance of understanding. She leans to her left just a bit, and cants her head to peer up at Emma's eyes. "I know you're afraid to let people behind those walls, and I know you've had more than your fair share of unfortunate luck in doing so, but you can't let Graham's death cut you off from the world. We all die, Emma, and that's not your fault either."

Emma bites her lip, and nods before pulling away.

Mary Margaret allows the blond to put some distance between them, as the child disappears.

"Smells good… chicken?"

"Yes, I figured something healthy would be in order after your rather unfortunate run in with two week old pizza," Mary responds, picking up the knife to continue her chopping, realizing that Emma's well past her breaking point for emotional conversations for the day.

"You know, that's not funny," her roommate replies.

Mary finds herself smiling at the blond's tone. "It's a little funny."

"It's actually not. And I already told you I'm not sick. You can't get food poisoning from leftover pizza."

"No, just apples, I suppose," Mary responds without thinking, and briefly wonders why the thought is suffocating before continuing, "…at least according to Henry."

Emma is silent now, and the brunette is left to ponder her own odd response. It's almost as if it's a game of association. When she thinks of poison, her mind supplies the word apple. Perhaps, she thinks, she's been talking to Henry too much. She's never cared for apples, anyway, but it might not be a bad idea to continue to avoid them. Just in case.

* * *

><p>It's not that she minds any kind of repair effort. It's simply that she's never actually known a toaster to be fixed by stabbing it repeatedly with a knife. She's pretty sure Emma is visualizing Regina's heart as the knife plunges into the cold hunk of metal that used to be her toaster.<p>

Unfortunately, before she can draw Emma out into a discussion about her sudden, burning desire to be sheriff, as well as her choice of targets for expressing anger, Mr. Gold arrives. She leaves the room so that he and Emma can speak in private.

Mary Margaret isn't sure _exactly _what it is about the man that always leaves her with an immediate need to vacate the vicinity. While Regina is certainly frightening, there's never any question that she's going to be a bitch. She's predictably overbearing, but it's visible. Tangible. Her intentions are clear. She's going to make everyone's life a living hell, or die trying. Mr. Gold, however, is another animal. He's a serpent, slithering through the darkest of shadows, and stealing what you hold most dear, all the while convincing you that you actually want him to take it. His motives are murky and insidious at best, and it eats at her that Emma meets with him. Still, she keeps her concerns to herself, as Emma is, actually, an adult, and more than capable of dealing with the dreadful man.

A few days later, when Emma wins the election for sheriff, it's more than relief that someone has finally beaten Regina at her dirty little games. It's more than giddiness that it was her friend and roommate that did so. No, she thinks, with great awareness of the oddity of it all, it borders on maternal pride, or at least she thinks it does, since she's never actually experienced maternal pride before.

The victory does wonders for Emma's self confidence, and Mary Margaret is pleased to see the blond look more relaxed. She thinks, perhaps, that between her ongoing determination to make Emma feel wanted, and her friend's new role as sheriff, that Emma is on the path to resolving some of her issues.

She finds herself almost blindsided, then, when the child reappears not a week later.

* * *

><p><strong>Emma<strong>

"_And you think if he knows, he'll want them?"_ Mary Margaret asks, ever so carefully.

Emma knows that her friend's question is loaded. She's not just asking Emma about Ava and Nicholas. She's also trying to gauge Emma's thoughts about her own parents.

"_I don't know."_ Three little words, yet Emma knows her tone gives too much away. She can't keep the hurt from her voice. She sees Mary Margaret's eyes soften in sympathy, not for the two children sitting at her table, but for the one standing in front of her.

Emma's afraid. She's so afraid. She's afraid of letting down Ava and Nicholas. She's afraid their father won't want them. She's terrified beyond reason that when she finally finds her own parents, they won't want her. Afraid that she won't be enough, or good enough. Petrified that she truly is alone, completely unwanted, totally unloved. The pain is physical, excruciating, ripping at her heart like a dull, serrated knife that pulls at tissue and leaves shreds of ragged flesh.

It's almost too easy to find him. She pleads on their behalf, yet he still he doesn't want them. And this, this is almost too much to bear. A sword is plunged into her chest, and she gasps for breath, forehead pressed against the steering wheel, even as her hands grip the cold, faux leather as if it is the only thing holding her back from death's door. She knew this was a possibility, but to actually be confronted by it is overwhelming. Tears beat arrhythmically on the rubber floor mat, puddling beneath her. Sucking in a breath, she pushes away from the wheel, pressing herself into the back of the seat. She swipes at the tears, stuffs the anguish back into its steel prison, and re-erects her fortress with a clench of her jaw.

She is Emma Swan, and Emma Swan is doing just fine all on her own. She doesn't _need _anyone else. She tells herself it doesn't matter if they don't want her. After all, why does she even care about two people who left her in the middle of the road to die? That's right, she doesn't. Asshats. What kind of people do that? When she finds them, she's going to give them a piece of her mind for ruining her whole damn life… and maybe a lecture on parental responsibility. Then… then, she'll turn and walk away from them for good because it'll be her turn to leave. Emma Swan doesn't need _anyone_.

It's not until she's standing in the middle of a dark road, surrounded by nothing but wilderness, and watching taillights disappear, that she's once again reminded of her solitude. The sky's enormous, the stars, infinite. She's so tiny, insignificant. And alone. In the road. Again. Fucking cosmic karma. She kicks the tire, then gets in the car and slams the door.

She has no one.

No one.

Well, there's Henry, but she doesn't really even have him; Regina does. Besides, he belongs to Emma, not the other way around. She wants to belong to someone. Someone who loves her. She is utterly, utterly alone in the world. It's crushing. Why isn't she as lucky as Ava and Nicholas? Why is it so easy to find everyone except the two people that really matter? Epic fucking fail. Maybe she hasn't tried hard enough. Maybe she's tired of trying. With a sigh, she parks her car outside Mary Margaret's apartment. Their apartment, she corrects.

She doesn't want to go in. She knows Mary Margaret is probably waiting up for her and she isn't sure she wants to talk to the woman. She just wants to shove the pain away and forget about it. It's too hard to think about, and Mary Margaret seems to be on a quest to squeeze past her defenses and make her deal with things. Though, she really has no idea _why_ the brunette is so determined. Well, no idea other than Henry's theory that Mary is really Snow White, who is actually her mother, who didn't leave her in the road to die, but actually sent her away so that she could save everyone from the Evil Queen's curse. It's ridiculous, and she laughs out loud. However silly, she finds some small part of her wanting to believe, no matter how ridiculous. Mary Margaret would be an awesome mom, she thinks. She was so good with Ava and Nicholas, and seemed to know exactly what to do with them, as if she'd been doing it her whole life. Emma rolls her eyes at herself. Of course she does, she's a teacher. Still, she _does _make Emma feel like she's loved and wanted. She finds herself thinking that she wouldn't be so disappointed to find out that her roommate really is her mom.

Emma thumps her head on the steering wheel a couple of times. She's got to stop hanging out with Henry. She's becoming delusional. On the other hand, Mary Margaret doesn't seem like the type that would leave her out in the cold one day, just because Emma was no longer convenient, or because they'd had an argument. With a sigh, she realizes she wants to trust her friend, who, if she's totally honest with herself, really is becoming sort of like family - with her constant worry and complete acceptance of Emma.

With a tiny bit of hope sparking inside once again, she realizes that, if nothing else, she did a good thing today. She saved Ava and Nicholas from the pain of the unknown, from the anguish of never knowing parental love. With a smile, she heads up the stairs to talk to Mary Margaret.

"_Awww….And who does he think they are?"_

She has no idea what possesses her to answer the question. Perhaps, on the most basic level, she just needs to connect with someone. She wants what Ava and Nicholas have. By sharing this one tiny detail, she manages to connect with Mary Margaret on a deeper level. She lets the brunette behind the wall. Incredibly, her roommate is thrilled to find out that *she* might have a kid, and not only doesn't seem unhappy that said child might be Emma, but goes so far as to almost _claim_ Emma as her own by comparing their chins. Mary Margaret's response, though certainly not unwelcome, is simply overwhelming, and Emma finds herself in a bit of a panic. She flees the apartment again, halted only by her roommate's intent scrutiny of her baby blanket, as if she's remembering something. So, Emma pauses… watching, and waiting… just in case.


	4. Movie Night

**AN: Thanks to Emma Swan for the prompt to get me writing again. If you haven't checked out her story "Fire and Ice," you're missing an absolutely brilliant story. **

**This chapter is a bit lighter than the others, with a different style. Hope you enjoy.**

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><p>"Seriously?" Emma crosses her arms as she glares at the brunette. "Are you punishing me for last week?"<p>

The other woman smiles, almost wickedly. "Of course not. I'm not vengeful."

Huffing at the mischievous twinkle in her roommate's eye, she pokes at the DVD in Mary Margaret's right hand. "That one, then."

"Really?" The brunette tilts her head slightly as she frowns. "I thought for sure you'd pick Charlie and the Chocolate Factory."

Emma rolls her eyes, and turns to grab a soda. "No." Popping open the green can, she elaborates, knowing her curious roommate will inevitably ask. "The Oompa Loompas creep me out."

Mary Margaret shakes her head, and sticks the DVD in the player. "And *you're* the one that's going to save us from the "curse"? I find that my confidence is shaken."

"Hey, don't judge. Evil is different from creepy." Emma plops down on the sofa next to Mary Margaret and hands her a slice of pizza. "I won't have to battle Oompa Loompas."

"I should make you watch them. It seems only fair after I've had nightmares all week from you forcing me to watch Saw."

"I'm sure *this* will give me nightmares of some sort, just as much as the Oompa Loompas would," the blond mutters, waving a slice of greasy pizza towards the screen.

"It's Disney, Emma. How can it give you nightmares?"

With a shrug, the blonde picks off a circular pepperoni, and shoves it in her mouth as she props her feet up on the coffee table.

"How's it going with August?" Mary Margaret asks.

"It's... not. He thinks he's Pinocchio. I refuse to date a delusional puppet. It's just weird. And awkward…and not happening. Ever."

"He thinks he's a puppet?" the brunette repeats incredulously.

"Yep. He tried to convince me that his leg is wooden."

Mary Margaret mulls the information over for a moment before her curiosity gets the best of her. "Is it?"

"Of course not! It's totally normal. The dude is screwed up. In fact, have you seen Henry's book? Pinocchio was this little red headed kid. August looks nothing like him. Seriously. Unless he has some kind of addiction to Just for Men, there's no freaking way that guy could pass for a red head."

With a laugh, Mary Margaret grabs a slice of pizza and curls her legs underneath her, as she leans against the armrest.

There's silence for a few minutes, as they watch the dwarves mine for gems. Emma wonders who Henry thinks they are, since there aren't actually any dwarves in Storybrooke. Well, not that she's seen anyway. Though, surely she would have noticed seven midgets running around. It's not like she'd see that just anywhere. Except maybe at the circus. Does the circus come to Storybrooke? Maybe she could take Henry.

"I thought there were eight dwarves," Mary Margaret comments with a frown, interrupting Emma's thoughts.

"Seems like you'd be the expert, but, sadly, no. There are only seven. Hence, Snow White and the *Seven* Dwarves. See? Right there on the DVD box." Emma pokes the box with her toe.

Mary Margaret furrows her brow momentarily. Yes, she's quite certain there should be eight. Why would there be seven? There's something not quite right about that number, and she feels her heart constrict, inexplicably. Shaking it off, she turns to Emma. "Seven is an odd number."

"Odd as in not even? Or odd as in strange?"

Mary Margaret closes her eyes briefly, and cants her head towards her roommate. "Does it matter?"

"No. Either way, it's lucky."

"Not for the eighth dwarf," the brunette replies sadly.

"He's non-existent!" Emma argues, her hands gesturing towards the animated movie on the television.

"Well, I'm not so sure." Mary Margaret crosses her arms defensively.

"Fine. Tomorrow, you can call Disney and complain."

"I don't have to call Disney. *I'm * Snow White."

"Of course you are," Emma nods, taking a swig of soda.

The brunette glares, clearly affronted. "You're patronizing me."

Shrugging, and still staring at the television, Emma replies, "You started it."

"Really, Emma? I'm living with a child." Mary Margaret mutters to herself, turning back to the movie.

"Your child, apparently," Emma states with a cheeky grin, tossing a kernel of excessively buttered popcorn in her mouth.

"Then you must take after your father…." Her own comment starts a chain of thoughts. It occurs to her that while she'd thought of David as Prince Charming, she'd never really thought of him as Emma's father. She wonders about this, and can't help but steal a glance at her roommate. She wonders if it's wishful thinking that makes her see the similarities between David and the woman that Henry believes to be her daughter. She wonders about the curse. How would she feel should Henry be vindicated? She wonders if she could forgive David – or Prince Charming - but knows that she would have no reservations about accepting Emma as her daughter. She feels a twinge of something, perhaps an inkling of belief. How many people does she know that think they are all cursed characters from a fairy tale? August and Jefferson….and Henry. Three people who believe that something is afoot in Storybrooke - that things are not as they seem, or should be. She wonders if it's possible for people to have a shared delusion, and makes a note to ask Archie. "That's three people."

"What?" Emma furrows her brow in confusion, unable to follow the non-sequitur.

"Three people who believe in the curse."

Emma isn't sure that she likes that Henry is lumped into the same category as Jefferson and August - two clearly disturbed adults. Henry is just… well, he's Henry, and lonely.

Mary Margaret is silent for a moment, then opens her mouth as if to continue, before snapping it shut.

Emma arches an eyebrow. "What? Don't tell me you're starting to buy into this curse thing, too."

"No…I just…" There's another pause as Mary Margaret hosts an internal debate. Finally, she nods, having made up her mind. "Would you be okay with me being your mom?"

It's an unexpected question, and Emma chews thoughtfully for a few seconds. "I dunno. Depends. What kind of mom are you? Are you interfering and bossy? Are you going to make me wear foofy dresses and act all princess-y? Or do I get to have a sword?"

Heart thumping irrationally, Mary Margaret responds almost instinctively, "No, you most certainly cannot have a sword."

"Why not?" the blonde asks, clearly annoyed.

"Because ….because princesses don't carry swords." It's a weak defense, and Mary Margaret knows it. She's not even entirely sure *why* the idea of Emma carrying a sword bothers her. It just seems…unsafe.

Rolling her eyes at the lame response, Emma chides her, "Don't be sexist. I'll be the first. I'm not going to wait for yet another lunatic to rescue me, when clearly I can rescue myself. You've seen the kind of man I attract."

"That's not the way it works. The prince has to rescue the princess."

"Well, sure, in 1937. Now, in 2012, I'm pretty sure there are such things as self-rescuing princesses."

"It just doesn't seem right…and why do you have to be the first?"

Emma chews slowly, thinking this through. "Well, I'm the savior, right?"

"Right…"

"So, I can do whatever I want. Henry said so." Sure, it's a childish response, but it's true.

Mary Margaret scoffs, "He did not. He just said you're the only one that can leave Storybrooke."

Emma frowns. Well, that might be right. Perhaps she can find a loophole. With a small gasp, she turns to look at Mary Margaret in faux astonishment. "And you'd let your daughter leave with no weapon to protect her from the forces of darkness?"

"A sword won't help against magic," the brunette responds, unfazed by Emma's tone. She takes another bite of pizza, and revels in her victory.

"What if it was a magical sword? Plus, I still need protection against the non-magical forces of darkness."

A short lived victory. Emma and her darn logic! "Fine. You can have a sword," she agrees reluctantly, though she isn't pleased.

"Great! Then, yeah, I'm okay with you as a mom."

Mary Margaret briefly stares at her roommate's wide grin before pointing at her. "Why do I feel like I was set up for that argument?"

"Maternal instincts?" She can certainly see Mary Margaret with strong maternal instincts. The other woman is occasionally prone to mothering her – over-mothering her, even. Though, Emma has to admit that she doesn't always mind being treated like one of her roommate's fourth graders, like when Mary Margaret buys her Fruit Loops and Poptarts. She does so love Fruit Loops. With a frown, she wonders about the chances of getting Fruit Loops if they actually *did* break the "curse" and end up in some medieval fairy tale nightmare. "Do you think they have fruit loops in Fairytale Land?"

"No," Mary Margaret responds with a shake of her head. Why was Emma thinking about Fruit Loops?

"Maybe we could use magic to whip some up," the blonde responds, thoughtfully.

"Sure, you just need to find the leprechaun."

"Seriously, no. That's Lucky Charms. Fruit Loops has the toucan," comes the exasperated reply.

"Well, Snow White does have a way with birds. So, I'm sure she could find the toucan…but she only does that for non-sword carrying princesses." Mary Margaret smiles sweetly at her friend.

Emma scrunches her face. "Not fair."

"Fairest of them all, actually. Haven't you heard?"

Emma watches her friend carefully. For an instant, she allows herself to consider that Henry might be right. And Jefferson. And August. That *is* a growing number of people that think they're living in a cursed world, courtesy of Regina. She considers the odds, and narrows her eyes at Mary Margaret. "Do you *really* think you're Snow White?"

The other woman turns to Emma and shrugs. "I don't know what to believe. It would explain a lot. Sometimes I want to believe it. What about you?"

Emma looks away, turning back to the television. She pretends to watch. "I don't believe in happy endings."

Mary Margaret smiles gently, and squeezes her friend's arm. "There are other happy endings besides that one, Emma. You know, nothing will change if I'm not your mom."

Emma fights the urge to pull away, and tries to relax the growing tension in her shoulders. "Right, but everything will change if you are. My whole life will have been one big lie. I don't...I'm not sure how to deal with that."

Sensing the discomfort, the brunette pulls her hand away, and tries to offer what little comfort she can. "Well, we can deal together, because that would make the last twenty-eight years of my life a lie, as well."

"Yeah, but you would have had a life before that. I didn't."

"True."

Emma shakes her head, as if it will rid her of the thoughts. "It doesn't matter. It's just a delusion… You're different tonight. You've been different since you got out of jail. More.. spunky.

"Yes, I guess so. It feels right, you know?"

They watch in companionable silence for a few minutes before Emma speaks agains. "Hey, Mary Margaret?"

"Yes?"

"For the record, I really wouldn't mind if you turn out to be my mom."

It's unexpected, and Mary Margaret is surprised by her emotional response. Her heart soars, but she tries not to make a big deal of it, for Emma's sake. She knows it takes an enormous effort for the woman to share such private feelings with anyone, and it's a measure of trust that she hadn't expected. She weighs her options for a response, and opts for teasing – sort of. "For the record, if I am your mom, I'm not letting you have a sword." Because, really, if she *is* Emma's mom, there's no chance in hell the woman is going to be wielding sharp objects. She still remembers the toaster stabbing.

"Ridiculous… and I don't need permission. I'm an adult." It's almost a whine. Almost.

"Of course you are."

"Now who's being patronizing?"

"I'm not patronizing, I agreed with you," Mary Margaret states matter of factly.

With a huff, Emma crosses her arms, thinking that her roommate didn't actually agree with her at all. Not that it matters. She *is* an adult, and if she wants a sword, then she'll get a sword. A sword would be awesome, if the whole curse thing isn't a delusion. Much cooler than a gun. She imagines herself in a sword fight – winning, of course – and perhaps with some light armor because while wielding a sword is pretty fucking sweet, being cut by one is immensely less appealing. She wonders if someone in Storybrooke offers sword fighting lessons. Or maybe she could just get one on eBay and practice in her bedroom. She grins to herself, and makes a mental note to check it out at work tomorrow.

She turns her focus back to the movie, and sees the dwarves and a menagerie of wild fauna chasing the Evil Queen.

"Is it bad that I'm imaging Regina being struck by lightning and crushed by a boulder?"

Mary Margaret lets out a choked half-laugh. "No. In fact, wait, let me enjoy that visual for a moment."

"If only I could find some dwarves and a cliff – and an overly convenient thunderstorm," Emma thinks aloud, with a wistful sigh.

"Yes, Storybrooke is decidedly short on vertically challenged adults. Perhaps Henry could help?" the brunette suggests, grabbing the last handful of popcorn.

Emma ponders the idea for a split second before shaking her head. "Not sure that involving my child in a murder plot against his mother would benefit our relationship."

Mary Margaret nods, watching as Prince Charming kisses Snow White, awakening her from her slumber.

"I just don't understand these fairy tales," Emma complains, as the credits scroll. "Why bother with all the theatrics? Instead of trying to trick Snow White into eating the apple, why doesn't the queen just sneak up behind her and run her through with a sword?

"What is it with you and swords? " Mary Margaret asks, turning to look at the blonde. "There's not much of a story or a happy ending if she does that."

"Not only that, if she just wants to be the fairest, why doesn't she just maim Snow White or something? The plot makes no sense."

"Emma!" Mary Margaret scolds sharply, even if she isn't sure *why* the comments are so upsetting. Well, maybe she is. After all, she might be Snow White. The thought of being run through or maimed is horrible.

"What? It's no worse than a poisoned apple!"

"You'd have her maim you own mother?" Mary Margaret asks quietly, her feelings hurt.

"Well, no, of course not… I was just making a point." Even if the point was made to entirely the wrong person. It's a still a valid point, after all. The evil queen with all her drama is such a cliché. She snickers under her breath at what Regina might think if Emma called her a cliché. No doubt, she'd be horribly insulted, much too vain to think of herself as anything but original.

She glances at Mary Margaret, who still looks hurt after Emma's suggestion of disfigurement. With a sigh, and a mental kick, she reluctantly apologizes. "Sorry, I didn't mean for that to be quite so personal. You know, if you *are* Snow White."

"It's fine. I'm not sure why that bothered me so much….but know that now you are most definitely not getting a sword. You might maim me. Or someone else," the brunette responds pointedly.

With an internal string of expletives, and an outward scowl, at her roommate's almost victorious tone, Emma wonders how she might redeem herself such that she'll be allowed to have a sword. Just in case.


End file.
